


Darkness and Disco Lights

by EmeraldWaters



Series: The Beacon Hills Wolf Pack and the Utterly Random and Very Dangerous Situations They Find Themselves In [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deaton gets kidnapped, F/M, Ignores Season 5, Stiles' plans suck, The pack goes to save him, but nothing really happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaters/pseuds/EmeraldWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills has been so long without serious incident that nobody was expecting Deaton to go missing in the dead of the night.  </p><p>Fast forward a week later, and the pack have tracked him down to Club Aconite.</p><p>The plan: get in, get Deaton out and stay undetected.</p><p>But Stiles' ideas rarely ever go to plan.</p><p> </p><p>(Based heavily on 4x01. Ignores Season 5)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness and Disco Lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a long series of pack-related stories and one of three Marrish-centered stories.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, they all belong to Jeff Davis. I will not make any money from this.

The symbol is engraved in the upper left corner. As a pointed cross intertwined with purple and yellow flowers, Lydia thinks - rather wryly - that some Hunters just don’t have a flair for subtlety (although admittedly, the others hadn’t noticed the difference). Despite a shoddy exterior of crumbling foundations and dirty windows, the doors are dark, lacquered oak.

 

Both of them stand still, neither willing to make the first move up the steps. An ice-cold wind picks up, cutting through the thin material of her dress and stirring the ends of her hair. The bare skin of her legs, hands and neck are instantly chilled and Lydia instinctively moves closer to him, because somehow the unnatural warmth of his skin can warm the deathly cold of her own. Even if it only lasts for a few seconds. When their arms brush he must feel the spark too because - after a pause, he raises his head.

 

Green eyes meet hers and Parrish’s nervousness reflects her own.

 

It’s what spurs her to move.

 

Every click of her heels on the stone echoes, tripled; an irregular staccato and Lydia avoids every crack and web along the way. Superstition or not, she’s had enough bad luck to last her a lifetime. He follows, silent and still, a gun primed to fire. As soon as their feet hit the flat, the nearest streetlight flickers and goes out, plunging into a half-darkness.  

 

Both of them are suspended, motions frozen before their actions can be completed. A ribbon of mist escapes Lydia’s lips after her sharp intake of breath. When he exhales there is nothing. But neither speak. She isn’t even allowed that security, because they’re nothing but acquaintances. The part of her brain suppressed by growing fear curses herself for going along with Stiles’ plan. They never end well. Not for her anyway. Apart from their increasingly quick breathing there is nothing but an ominous silence.

 

 _Rustle_.

 

There’s a shuffling that’s getting louder, closer. Movements are felt behind her back and indigo nails cut crescents into palms. Then a long, drawn-out scream and Lydia freezes, waiting for her own to build up. Her lips form in panicked words but they fall from her lips.

 

A horde of brightly-dressed girls surround them,  Lydia set instantly at ease amidst them and for the life of her she can’t remember what she’d been going to say. Their humming buzzes pleasantly and worries melt into nothingness. With hooded, heavy eyes she watches one splay a hand against Parrish’s chest; a sharp nail tracing down the bared ‘vee.' Another two take her arms, fingers dancing down the purple scales on her sleeves. Relaxed, Lydia notices neither their crimson eyes, pointed teeth nor tapered ears until the oak doors closed behind them.

 

And tinted dust rains down on their heads.

 

 

* * *

  


 

Despite best efforts, neon paint doesn’t mask faded crimson splashes. Not to Lydia. Fresh red droplets drip past gaudy orange-and-green stripes to pool around skirting boards. Etched into the wood grain and carved into metres of solid rock are pictures, images, memories. She has no choice but to see them.

 

Convulsing, at the onslaught on both her Supernatural and human senses, the fingertips pressed to her mouth come away black. Choking, Lydia  stumbles into the wall.

 

_A violinist’s bow slashing a throat, rather than strings._

_An acrid, bitter taste on the tongue. Limp hand dripping blue, glass sprinkling the floor._

_Melting candle-wax, flesh turning black._

_Lacerations gaping like fish gills. Bloody smiles smiling red._

 

“Lydia?” Parrish’s voice seems to come from far in the distance, muffled.

 

The walls of this building are built from horror and cries of the dying. Horror snakes down the empty corridors and soaks into the foundations. Death marks every inch of space.

 

Breaths coming harder now, Lydia whips her head wildly, resisting the urge to scream. She won’t succumb. _She won’t._ Somehow she’s always unprepared but she should know by now. Death follows her everywhere she goes.

 

_Skin freezing over._

_Fighting for breath against encircled hands._

_A beautiful song. A demon’s eyes. A maiden’s face. A shark’s grin._

 

“Lydia look at me.”

 

It’s more urgent this time, not quit hiding the undertone of panic, but the steel in his voice gets to her. And there are hands on her shoulders now, gentle hands that gently turn her face upwards.

 

 _Celadon,_ her mind supplies, even now, calculating. Celadon green. Something she knows. Green eyes that hold so many things; worry, strength and something terrifyingly inscrutable Lydia has never seen directed at her in that way.

 

And suddenly she can hear Deaton’s voice.

 

_“Find your anchor. Someone who can pull you back. Someone that has a strong connection to you. A kind of emotional tether.”_

 

But it’s not enough.

 

**Tired. So tired. Four months without light, waiting, just waiting for someone to save them, only to have them never arrive. Bleeding out on the floor, stretching for Boyd but never making it. A life full of almosts. A vicious pain at her back where the knife was buried. Blood seeping out of the wound as well as lost hope.**

 

**Peace. Calm, unjudging Boyd. Sweet Boyd who didn’t think he deserved love after failing to save his sister. Losing Erica put out the last flicker of hope. Lost at the claws of his own Alpha, his death was quick. He was willing to go, his only ties to the living were dead. That didn’t mean his death hurt them any less.**

 

 **Pride. Fighting for the light side, the first time feeling as if they almost belonged. Sickness radiating in the pit of her stomach where there should’ve been something like joy. Looking up, knowing what was wrong. Redemption meant nothing looking at Ethan’s face. Pure grief. Aiden barking out a laugh, trying to comfort his brother in his dying breaths. Because they’d always been there for each other. Ethan fled Beacon Hills and no one blamed him because from then on he was cursed. Cursed to be half of what he’d been before, never to be fully whole again.**  

 

**Compassion. The blow that everyone had felt - had been left reeling by - because it was as if it had killed them as well. Allison had whispered love not just to Scott but to her extended family, her pack. For Isaac, a fledgling romance; affection and regret that they hadn’t had longer, or that they’d started off so badly. For her Father, apology that she’d left him alone but don’t forget that she loved him and to take care of himself. A somewhat grudging acceptance for Derek, who she had hated but never really got to know. Never got to see him as he was today. Respect for Kira, katana and bow side-by-side, new and old, fox and the Huntress. Concern for Stiles, even as the Nogitsune, just because her heart knew no bounds. A reminder for Lydia; I’m always with you, I care, and you’re my best friend. Angel. Protector. Friend. Love. "Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes." Someone ripped out Lydia’s heart that day, a hollow cavity in her chest and she was suddenly without the best part of herself. A hand thudding to the ground. Shining eyes with no light in them. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.**

 

Celadon. Memories surface, good memories that pull her through.

 

_The sway of Jordan's arms as he carried her to help, hand pressed against her shredded side, murmuring; “hold on, we’re almost there, don’t close your eyes.”_

_Isaac’s look of amazement at Parrish, holding Camden’s dog tags in his hand. Tear-filled laughs as Isaac leapt at him, just a second letting himself chase the contact he craved as a child; clutching Parrish, expressing more gratitude than he ever could out loud._

_Light in Derek’s eyes as he watches the pack train. The half-hearted glare he sends her whenever he notices her watching, but even he can’t hide the fact that he’s proud of them all; his new family. Chris returning from overseas; not whole, not healed, but healing. A kindness that wasn’t there before and the agreement to help them all train._

_Kira’s happiness at being accepted: being part of something, a group of people that rely on her as she them._

_Danny’s mirth when he comes back to Beacon Hills, as Stiles finds out he knew about their pack the whole time, and, by the way, he’s not human either._

_Fond laughter at Stiles’ indiscernible muttering, folders spread in front of him and the exasperated look of the Sheriff when he finds his son with more coloured wool._

_Scott’s smile as he and Derek coach the pack through an exercise; the commanding but kind Alpha almost holding no resemblance to the scruffy and lost asthmatic Lydia vaguely remembers him as being._

_Liam and Mason with arms slung around each other’s shoulders, which makes her smile, because she can remember two freshmen who were exactly like that._

_Malia fighting, coming back to help even though it hadn’t been necessary; overcoming the flight instinct to protect her pack._

 

One breath and it feels like swallowing glass, two breaths and someone drives a white-hot spike into her temple, three breaths, it’s not real, it’s not _real_. There is a steady rhythm in her ear and she knows _it's not real_. Nobody’s heart ever beats in her hallucinations.

 

With eyes squeezed shut, Lydia counts to the pulse by her ear, focusing, until the last traces of the hold of the corridor slip away. Slowly opening her eyes, she has to blink out the dark spots and turn her head slightly before she realizes why she is so warm.

 

Without her realizing - not hard considering, Jordan had drawn her to him. Lydia’s head is resting against his chest, his arms bracketing her; one around her waist, his other hand holding the back of her head, thumb idly stroking her neck. She has no idea how long they’ve been here.

 

“I’m okay."

 

He snaps out of the thousand-yard stare and turns his head downwards, focusing those unnervingly green eyes on her. Lydia knows he doesn’t believe it but he acquiesces: arms loosening.

 

She steps back because to anybody, that exchange was far too comfortable for mere acquaintances. Not that she would blame him. After all, he brought her back.

 

Parrish moves towards the door but Lydia sticks her arm out, stopping him.

 

“One thing first.” She mutters after a critical once-over.

 

Despite the rest of his outfit belonging - tight jeans and ¾ shirt - his hair still resembles a middle-aged teacher (that sweats copiously and sends his students dirty looks).

 

Sliding her hands into his dark hair, she cards her fingers through it. Even in her heels she is several inches shorter, so she tugs him down to her level, disregarding the small noise that escapes his throat. Once his hair is sufficiently mussed – the words just-shagged come to mind – Lydia smiles, stepping back and matching his gaze head-on. And if she’s not mistaken (she rarely is) there's two high spots of colour on his cheeks. She’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

Lydia can feel the darkness creeping back in behind her.

 

He notices.

 

“You ready?”

 

Uncertainty lies ahead. But so does her pack. And like _hell_ is she going to let some psychotic Hunters hurt her family.

 

“As I’ll ever be.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
Vibrations rock the foundations, the deep thrum of the bass resonating in her bones, the electronic, fractured song that bursts from the speakers, humming over her skin. Flashing strobe lights dance odd patterns across people’s faces as the sweaty, scantily-clad bodies take up the room. Spinning from one partner to the next in the blink of an eye they are animalistic, primal in the nature that they dance.

 

This is a scene she used to genuinely love – craved - because it was empty and shallow and the music so loud she could barely hear her own thoughts. This was a scene she knows, understands. This scene doesn’t hold nightmarish visions of stabbings, fires and drownings. This scene doesn’t feel like death.  

 

For a moment Lydia just watches the people move around her, swallowed easily by the crowd. She envies their simple lives.

 

There is a buzz in her ear, a short, painless burst of static. Derek leans against the bar in mock casualness and doesn't acknowledge her existence but Lydia is comforted nonetheless.

 

Giving an imperceptible nod to Parrish, she lets him lead her – by hand - through the throng and takes a few selfish moments to admire his form.

 

Although the Deputy looks good in uniform he certainly doesn’t look bad out of it. His viridescent shirt clings to his back, dipping pleasingly at the front, and the black denim of his jeans follows the lines of his legs nicely. It is an enjoyable change from the straight-laced persona he usually presents and Lydia would be lying if she said she doesn’t think he looks completely desirable.

 

Trying her hardest to be subtle as Parrish moves them through the mass of people, Lydia’s gaze flits from person to person, discerning who was there for which reasons while he scans the potential exits. She’s always been good at reading people, and the skill has only improves after the development of her ‘powers.’ After all, humans are so intimately connected with death.

 

_“They know.”_

 

As soon as Lydia hears Scott’s voice in her earpiece, she knows their particular game is up. That the two long days spent following Stiles’ plan – in which the two first meet in a bar when Jordan spilt his drink on her – was for nothing. That they are being watched. That they are deep in enemy territory. Just like Mexico. Just like with the Nogitsune.

 

Fear, normally repressed so well begins to register. Being almost two years since the Benefactor – or anything truly horrible or supernatural – had occurred, it had been a long time since she’s felt this afraid. Senses on full alert, she prays they can't see the way her hands shake or hear the thrumming of her heart, because if they do they’ll definitely be found out.

 

However, Lydia is very talented at projecting an image she wants people to see.  Wasting no time to look startled, she brushes her hair forward, making sure the earpiece stays covered, the movement casual enough to seem unsuspicious.

 

Quickening her step, she grabs Jordan’s shoulder. Once he turns, Lydia draws him to her, seductively tugging him down to her height; which, even in six-inch pumps, is two inches shorter. At this angle his body blocks hers and Lydia takes a second to refocus; breathing out of her nose, throat working to force a scream down. The skin of his neck smells of peppermint and is familiar enough to compose her slightly as she inhales.

 

Her lips brush the shell of his hair in an alluring manner as she whispers, “dance with me.”

 

Instantly there are hands at her hips, moving them further back into the throng of people. They pull and she stumbles into his chest, causing an alien half-smirk to grace his face. Lydia vehemently denies the soft swoop in her stomach as his eyes meet hers, softly; the only part of him he can offer now: the one truth. Sending a quick thank-you to the Gods that Jordan is perceptive enough to understand, Lydia takes a step closer; knowing if they don’t make this convincing enough, they may as well be writing their own obituaries.

 

_Have faith._

 

Although, judging from what she’s seen, he's quite the actor.

 

Not to be outdone, Lydia moves her hand from where it is pressed up against his chest and runs it up his forearm, skimming her fingers across his bicep. Reminiscent of her old seduction techniques – which she loathes, although they work – Lydia peers up from beneath her eyelashes and slowly draws her arms up to lock around his neck.

 

His eyes flash orange when Lydia drags indigo-painted nails through his hair, tugging at the ends.

 

_Not a one off then..._

 

It’s her turn to smirk and she files that information away.

 

_For later._

 

Jordan's hands drop to the dip in her back, bleeding warmth through the purple sequins of her dress. Combined, their actions bring their bodies hip to hip, pressed together firmly.

 

Malia's eyes meet hers through the crowd before the gap closes and she's hidden from view again.

 

The voice in her ear has been silent since, and if this is a good or bad thing, Lydia doesn’t know.

So she rotates her hips slowly – sensually. Parrish's body is getting hotter as the seconds pass, heat radiating into her bones. Eyes catch on a head of curls a couple of metres away and she doesn't even know if it's Isaac but Lydia relaxes.

 

As the music rises and falls the colours flash and she sees him in reds and yellows and blues. Elevated, her arms twist gracefully, light shimmering around them before they return to his shoulders. Sound reverberates in her chest, as their bodies move closer. Freeing a hand to cup the back of his neck, Lydia cards her fingers through the hair at his nape – his pinfeathers as she likes to call them – if for no other purpose than to make him shudder.

Anything for a distraction.

 

Now their mouths are a hairsbreadth apart, the space between their faces evaporating. Parrish’s eyes flit to hers and they’re heady – intoxicating as he drinks her face in, not for the first time. When he breathes out – shortly - the puff of breath that sweeps across her lips is a sweet ambrosia.

 

Suddenly, easily, this has become more than just an act. It’s real. And Lydia _wants._

 

Arching a pretty little eyebrow, Lydia waits for him to make the final move, to put the end to this frustrating dance they've been doing for a year now. And as per usual, Jordan doesn't disappoint.

 

His hand cups her cheek as his lips meet hers, a thumb stroking the skin there. It's sweet and gentle and everything Lydia is not used to. Finally. Smiling against his mouth when he grazes his teeth lightly against her bottom lip, she swears she can see light dancing behind her closed eyelids.

  
Not even Scott's panicked _"get out now!"_ can harm her mood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later, when Deaton is home safe (apart from some minor cuts, bruises and a broken wrist), Lydia is curled up on an armchair at Derek’s ‘pack house,’ half-listening to Stiles babble about emissary training. Malia is, as usual in the corner, devouring a pizza by herself while she ignores everyone (minus Kira, who is in Japan but texts anyway); Danny idly chats with Liam and Mason, and Scott and Isaac are sharing the loveseat, bumping shoulders as they play PlayStation (she’s surprised it hasn’t been banned with the amount of fights it has caused). But she is really watching Jordan chat with Derek, his arms leaning on the counter - sleeves rolled up, as he holds his beer. She smiles at him, at his hair flopping over his forehead. When he catches her looking he grins back.

 

And later, when he drives her home, he kisses her again - promising to see her tomorrow. Lydia pauses behind the front door after he’s driven away, just to catch her breath. None of her previous kisses had made her feel like this. Nobody has ever made her feel like this.

 

She thinks she knows now what Allison was talking about all those years ago.

 

 _Ally,_ she thinks, _you would've liked this one._

 

 


End file.
